


I Don't Fall Slow

by FrickinAngel



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Victorian Attitudes, jackmund
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrickinAngel/pseuds/FrickinAngel
Summary: Reid and Jackson have been dancing around this for months.  Hell, maybe even years. . .





	

**Author's Note:**

> This obviously takes place pre-Season Five! As we say: I just want my boys to be happy! Just a bit of fluffy smut for y'all. Hope you enjoy!

I Don’t Fall Slow

 

Reid paused, just outside the white-tiled dead room, his fingertips resting lightly on the wood of the door, to look in through the window. Sure enough, Jackson, facing away from Reid, was doing an autopsy on the poor sod who had been brought in late last night, or early this morning, depending on how you looked at it. 

Reid watched silently, holding his breath without meaning to, as the linen of Jackson's blue shirt strained across his flexing back muscles as he worked to pull apart the rib cage of the dead man in front of him. There was a sickening crunch, audible even through the closed door, as Jackson finally managed to pry the bones apart and Reid let out a huge breath of air. He shook his head ruefully before opening the door and stepping inside. 

Jackson, still hunched over the body, turned around to face him, the ever-present Turkish cigarette dangling from his lips and spilling ribbons of fragrant, bluish smoke. "Mornin' Reid," he growled, his mouth spreading wide in an ironic grin that was all-too familiar. His dark brown hair hung partially over his eyes, giving him his trademark rakish look. 

"And a good day to you, Captain," Reid said, stiffly, wondering if Jackson had known he was standing there, watching him at work. "What have you to tell me about the manner in which this unfortunate gentleman left this mortal coil?" 

Jackson straightened up and stretched luxuriantly, his blue shirt riding up to reveal a small portion of strong, smooth stomach muscles above the waistband of his trousers. Reid looked away and coughed politely. When he glanced back, Jackson was looking at him with slitted eyes and a quirky smile. "This gentleman," he made air quotes with his fingers. "Met his grisly endin' at the bottom of a bottle." 

Reid was shocked. "Do you mean to tell me he wasn't murdered?" 

Jackson shook his head, his cigarette coming dangerously close to falling off his lip. "Not what I'm sayin' at all. At the bottom of said bottle was almost surely some kinda deadly poison." 

"Ahh," Reid said, nodding. "And said poison was...?" 

"Now, I ain't no Sherlock Holmes, Reid," Jackson smirked. "But I'm gonna guess it mighta been Cyanide, based on the way he died. I gotta do some tests on the stomach contents first to be absolutely certain."

"Very good work, Captain," Reid said, nodding. “And what brought you to this conclusion?”

Jackson pointed at the florid skin of the victim's face. "Y'see here, how his skin is reddish?" 

Reid leaned in close to look, and Jackson leaned in with him, their heads inches apart. Reid suddenly found himself close enough for the spicy scent of Jackson's hair pomade to tickle his nostrils. He could feel the warmth radiating off of Jackson’s skin. The American turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. Had he been woolgathering? "Oh. . . Yes, quite so," Reid muttered, blushing furiously. “Do go on.” 

"Well, folks who die of Cyanide poisoning end up with pinkish to red-colored skin, because the cyanide interrupts cellular respiration in the blood. Of course it coulda been carbon monoxide poisonin’ too, from that same symptom, but y’see the traces of vomit around his mouth?" 

Reid looked, and saw that there was a dried scrim of what looked suspiciously like vomit on one side of his mouth and chin. “Indeed,” he murmured. 

“A fatal dose of ingested Cyanide causes severe vomiting,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “Not a pretty way to meet yer maker, anyway.” 

"Most fascinating," Reid breathed, watching Jackson closely. "You never cease to amaze me with your knowledge of all things medical, Captain." 

Jackson scratched at his jaw with the back of one still-bloody hand. Reid was mesmerized by the raspy sound the stubble on his cheek made as he rubbed it. He shook his head and looked away again. What was wrong with him this morning, damn it? It was almost as if Dr. Mesmer himself had been at work inside his head, fixating him with strange thoughts and desires. It had all started with a truly disturbing dream this morning before awoke. 

He didn’t remember everything, but it had definitely involved Captain Jackson in his bed, and neither of them wearing a stitch of clothing. He had woken up most uncomfortable. It made him blush and look away all over again at the confusing thoughts that swirled in his head. 

"Yeah, I'm a real wunderkind, ain't I?" Jackson laughed coarsely, closing his sparkling brown eyes for a moment and tossing his head back, revealing a long, elegant neck. Then, he glanced over at the desk, where a half-empty bottle of scotch stood, the cap carelessly tossed aside on a messy pile of autopsy files. 

“Is that MY scotch, Captain Jackson?” Reid asked, only slightly irritated. He had gotten used to this over his years with the American. 

Jackson had the guile to look triumphant rather than guilty. “Well, ya know what they say. . .”

“I’m sure I don’t,” Reid said starchily. 

Jackson winked at him, causing a warm stirring in Reid’s belly. “Possession is nine tenths of the law!”

Reid surprised himself by leaning in and grabbing Jackson by the shoulders, pretending to shake him in anger. “I do believe you are in MY police division, Captain,” he joked. “Supposing I arrest you for the theft of my good Scotch and clap you in irons?”

Jackson didn’t even flinch, merely smiled. “And what would ya do with me then, Reid?” 

Reid leaned in closer, his hands fisting in the soft linen of Jackson’s shirt. “Well, I—”

The door suddenly opened behind them, causing Reid and Jackson to start, guiltily, and jump apart. Bennett Drake walked in, looking concerned. "Any news for us, Captain?" 

Jackson launched right into the explanation he had just given Reid, as if nothing untoward had just happened between them. Had it?

Reid tuned them out, embarrassed and flustered. What had Drake seen? And for that matter, what had he thought? Had he merely thought it a case of masculine tomfoolery? After that dreadful dream this morning, he had been worried he might be turning into a Molly. 

He walked over to the window, brooding out over the horses and carts, plodding through the Whitechapel streets and thinking about how Jackson had come into their lives. Jackson had been a surgeon in the American Civil War and after that, had worked for the famous Pinkerton's Detective agency in Chicago. He had married and followed a beautiful British woman to England, Miss Susan Hart. 

Just of late, Jackson and his wife had separated, after a series of torrid events, and Jackson had asked leave to stay with Reid until he figured out a housing solution for himself. He was coarse and rude, a slob, an unrepentant alcoholic and womanizer. But life had been richer, more interesting (and more often than not, maddening) since Homer Jackson had taken up residence in the H-Division dead room and, if Reid were to be honest with himself, since he had taken up residence in Reid’s own home. 

Reid had diverted money from the H-Division budget to build the modern dead room to entice the American to come to work for them. His superiors hadn't been pleased about that at the time, but Jackson had since worked miracles for them in solving difficult cases. He had jumped directly on the fingerprinting bandwagon, understanding what a marvelous new science it was and the ramifications therein. 

Now, since he had come to live with Reid, they often had more time before retiring for the night to share a nightcap and discuss the details of the cases they worked on and the travails of life. They never discussed Jackson’s separation from Long Susan, but Reid suspected it pained him. No matter how many other women Jackson took to his bed, Reid knew that he loved Long Susan deeply and was crushed by her making him leave. 

“—so I’m not sure how the Cyanide was delivered to him,” Jackson was saying, across the room as Reid began to pay attention again. “But I intend to analyze the contents of his stomach to figure it out.” 

“Well done, Captain Jackson,” Drake said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll send one of the lads out to bring his wife in for questioning.” 

“That’s a good start, I think, Drake,” Jackson agreed, looking wistfully at the Scotch bottle on the desk again. He didn’t pick it up though. He’d been trying to cut back after weeks of debauchery following his expulsion from Long Susan’s house. 

 

Later, at Inspector Reid’s home. . .

Mathilda had gone up to bed earlier in the evening, stating that she felt she was fighting off a bit of the grippe. A bit later, Reid had brought her up a warm milk with honey to sooth her throat, but she was already abed, curled under the quilts like a comma, the gas light hissing and flickering on the lowest setting. 

When he came back down the stairs, Jackson was just settling into one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace, having just come in from the pub. He smiled, weary up at Reid, the light of the fire brightening one side of his face warmly. He held up a tumbler of golden liquid. “Drink, Reid?” 

“I do believe I will, thank you,” Reid said, sitting opposite him and crossing one ankle across his knee, enjoying the heat of the fire on this chilly night. He watched, as Jackson poured him a slug of whiskey and passed the glass across to him. Their fingertips brushed together and Reid almost dropped the glass. 

“There I go again!” he thought. “These days, I’m worse than a schoolboy. . .” 

“Thank you,” he said, buying himself some time for composure by taking a long sip of the harsh liquid. It burned pleasantly all the way down his throat to his stomach, warming him from within. 

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, both staring at the crackling logs in the fireplace, mesmerized by the flickering flames and glowing coals. At last, Reid darted a glance over at Jackson, who had left off staring at the flames to rest his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed, a small smile turning up the corners of his generous mouth. 

Reid allowed himself a longer look. Jackson had removed his waistcoat and opened the top two buttons of his blue linen shirt, revealing the tan, smooth skin of his chest. Reid felt a disturbing, but pleasant stirring in his groin and forced himself to look away at the flames again, clearing his throat uncomfortably. 

“Somethin’ botherin’ you, Reid?” Jackson asked softly. 

Reid continued looking away, trying and failing to smile. He looked at Jackson. “Uh no, of course not,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You look flustered, my friend,” Jackson said. “Hot and bothered, if ya know what I mean?” 

“Hot and—” Reid spluttered, already feeling the flush of blood in his cheeks. “Why, I have no idea what you—”

Jackson chuckled, closing his eyes again and shaking his head, one side of his mouth quirking up into that ironic smile again. “It’s all right, y’know. . .”

“What the devil are you getting at, man?” Reid snapped, sitting forward in his chair and placing his elbows on his knees. 

“I think we both know what I’m getting’ at, Eddy. . .” Jackson drawled, favoring him with a slow, leering grin. 

Reid glared at him, and Jackson stared back. And then he startled Reid by standing up and stepping towards his chair, standing over him, hands on his hips, with that same expression on his face, a musing smile playing across his lips. 

“What—what are you doing, Captain?” Reid sat back in his chair, as Jackson took another step forward, leaned down and planted both hands on the arms of Reid’s chair, effectively pinning him in place. His heart was banging in his chest and he felt lightheaded with shock and, yes—excitement. 

Jackson moved closer and closer, until they were mere inches apart. Reid could feel Jackson’s breath on his face, like moth wings. “As I said—I think we both know what’s goin’ on, Edmund,” Jackson rumbled quietly. “We’ve been dancin’ around this for months. Hell, years, if I’m honest. . .” 

Reid couldn’t think of a thing to say. He stared into Jackson’s liquid brown eyes, at the fine lines around them, his mouth going dry with fear and desire. “I—I don’t know wh—”

Jackson knelt down between Reid’s knees until he was at eye-level with Reid. He leaned forward until his lips were right next to Reid’s right ear, his breath hot on the skin there. “I think you do,” he whispered, and Reid gasped, feeling an almost electric shock in his loins. 

“I. . . I think. . . That is, I don’t know what to—” Reid babbled inanely, his heart now hammering in his throat, his breathing rough. He realized he was more excited than he had ever been with his wife, Emily in all the years they were together. His trousers felt uncomfortably tight in the groin, and he groaned, as Jackson delicately licked his earlobe and then leaned back to look at him, his hands on Reid’s knees now, hot and strong. One hand slid up his leg, making him shake.

He grinned at Reid, his eyes narrowed, his expression once again rakish. “You see? I was right. You are hot and bothered, my friend.” 

Reid wanted to grab Jackson and crush him to his chest, but everything in his training as a man fought against it. He closed his eyes and sank back against the chair, weakly. “You are correct, Captain,” he breathed, his voice shaking. Hell, his entire body was trembling with desire. “What have you done to me?”

Jackson reached out and cupped the side of Reid’s face with one warm hand. Reid opened his eyes and stared into Jackson’s eyes, searching his face for an answer. “You’ve bewitched me,” he rasped. “I feel like a schoolboy.” 

Jackson laughed softly again as he slipped his fingers around the back of Reid’s neck and pulled him gently forward. Reid could see why women fawned over the man. He exuded machismo.

Jackson’s lips were less than an inch away from his and Reid couldn’t stand it any longer. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Jackson’s. They were soft and yielding, just as he’d dreamed of so often. Jackson’s mouth was insistent upon his, hungry and demanding. Reid’s hands stole up against his will to twine in Jackson’s dark hair and they both moaned with pleasure as Jackson pulled Reid against his chest. 

Jackson slipped one hand into the open V of Reid’s shirt, feeling the skin of his chest and Reid felt himself grow even harder. Jackson’s mustache rasped against his skin, but he needed it, wanted it. His breathing sounded as if he had run up seven flights of stairs all at once. His lips felt swollen and hot with desire. 

At last Jackson pulled back to look at him, for once, not smiling, but with a kind expression on his face. He looked vulnerable and gentle, soft, and Reid wondered if perhaps the persona they saw at H-Division was merely that: a mask. 

“Now, that wasn’t half bad, was it, Reid?” he whispered, staring at Reid’s lips. “It don’t mean you’re no Molly.” 

Reid shook his head, wanting still more. He didn’t even have an inkling of how to begin, but he knew one kiss would never be enough to satisfy. “No,” he panted. “Not half bad at all, Captain.” 

“Homer,” Jackson said. “How about we go with Christian names here? Edmund and Homer?” 

Reid nodded. “Homer, then, yes.” He closed his eyes again, envisioning kissing Jackson—Homer again. 

When he opened his eyes, Homer was looking at him hungrily. “Now, let me take you upstairs and show you what you’ve been missin’ your whole life, Edmund. . .” 

THE END


End file.
